


I'd Be Your Valentine

by PollyPocalypse



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anniversary, Bad Poetry, Conversational Snippets, Crowley likes old screwball comedies, Drunken Ramblings, Fluff and Crack, In which I heavily imply that Crowley was partially responsible for The Room, M/M, Really odd combination of cultural references, Slice of Life, This Isn't Heaven Trope, Twilight Zone References, Twilight Zone episode - A Nice Place to Visit, dinner and a movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 07:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PollyPocalypse/pseuds/PollyPocalypse
Summary: “...Right, so this one time in the fifties, some bright spark comes up with a new idea. He says: Hey, listen to this: how about, right, how about we make them think they’re in Heaven?”





	I'd Be Your Valentine

**Author's Note:**

> In which I discover to my horror that, like Newt, I derive far too much enjoyment by coming up with smartarse cultural references. 
> 
> This fic heavily references the Twilight Zone (1959) episode "A Nice Place to Visit". One or two details may have also been somewhat inspired by The Good Place.

Crowley’s never been one to stand on ceremony, when it comes to this sort of thing. 

But Aziraphale is. Of course he is. He’s the kind of person who always just instinctively knows what date Easter Sunday will be this year, and thinks that no-one did Christmas quite like the Victorians. The kind of person who actually remembers the official names for wedding anniversaries. And Crowley had signed up for that sort of thing, really, when he had kissed him after the thwarted apocalypse, exactly one year ago. Way before then, actually, if we’re being technical about it. 

But, of course, when you’ve been around as long as the two of them, a single year flashes by so quickly you barely even notice it. So the initial plan was to leave off the celebrations until their decennial, at least. 

But as it turned out, they did remember the date very clearly when it rolled around again, and it occurred to them both that they’re really not the sort to pass up an opportunity for a slap-up meal somewhere fancy (Aziraphale certainly isn’t, at any rate). 

Crowley’s favourite film is _The Lady Eve_. (He’ll admit to enjoying a film with snakes, and petty misdeeds. He will _not_ admit to identifying with the whole ‘accidentally falling in love while you’re meant to be getting up to mischief’ deal a little too well.) Aziraphale knows this, and would swear blind that it’s only by _astounding_ coincidence that their nearest little indie second-run cinema happens to be showing it that day. After which the decision was reached to dine at the Ritz again, to offer a certain sense of propriety. 

And _that_ was how they’d ended up ordering half the contents of the menu as well as a hefty amount of wine, before heading back to the bookshop to drink even more wine followed by digging out the Glenturret whisky, which had ultimately concluded with Crowley splayed out all over the sofa, conducting animated conversation with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, absent-mindedly and affectionately playing with the fingers on Aziraphale’s left hand while he spoke. 

“...And how was I supposed to know that some people would actually _enjoy_ bad films? Was jus’... jus’ trying to lower the quality of entertainment, thass all. Not my fault if they end up getting a cult following.” 

Aziraphale smiles knowingly. “And yet if I recall, you were also the one who tempted William McGonnagall into becoming a poet. Really, dearest, you ought to have learned your lesson by now.”

“Still not my fault people like bad things. Least I wasn’t just mucking about with stodgy old priests and politicians like that lot… I mean, good riddance and all, but at least I was being a little _imaginative_.”

Aziraphale giggles tipsily, almost displacing Crowley from his lap. “ ‘Imaginative’? I once saw you ring a man’s doorbell and run away.”

“I was having an off day! You’ve got to… you’ve got to keep your hand in somehow. Anyway, Hell collectively hasn’t had one original idea since that Pip guy came along in 1960.”

“Hmm?”

“...Right, so this one time in the fifties, some bright spark comes up with a new idea. He says: Hey, listen to this: how about, right, how about we make them think they’re in Heaven?”

Crowley attempts to throw his arms out for emphasis, but the position he’s in limits his movements somewhat. 

Aziraphale nods. “Go on.”

“An’ all the others were all: you daft bugger, how’re we supposed to make them think that? But this guy, he has a vision, he says: set them up in a fancy mansion, give them a party every night, big load of cash and all the sex they can eat, maybe… maybe a casino where they always win, and at first they think, ‘Christ, this is a bit of all right, got myself a cushy deal here,’ but eventually, yeah, _eventually_ it gets boring, because they’ve got everything they ever wanted without even having to work for it. No whatsit. No challenge means no satisfaction, see? Game of chance is no fun if you know you’ll win. And eventually they’d go up to their guide and say ‘Oi, mister, I’ve had enough of Heaven, hows about sending me to Hell for a change of scenery?’ and then he would say -” Crowley put on a hammy, theatrical voice “- ‘Oh ho ho, my dear sir, whatever made you think you were in Heaven?’ and everyone would have a bloody good laugh. Well, except for the poor bugger who’d been conned, obviously. They tended to get a bit aggravated.”

“I must say, it all seems rather underhand.”

Crowley grins up at him. “_Underhand?_”

“Well, point taken, I suppose. Just seems like it’s _cheating_ a little, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well, Hell didn’t really do _overhand_. Is that a thing? Overhand? Anyway, playing dirty was sort of their moddus… mos… moses opera… their thing. We had a gallery up there for a while, you know, with pictures of the looks on their faces. It was how they came up with the idea for hidden camera shows.”

“Hidden camera…?”

“Never mind, you wouldn’t like them. Anyway, it didn’t really catch on in the end. Too much work to individually tailor everything all the time, and most of the lot downstairs didn’t like how shiny and clean everything looked. Most of them were traditionalists anyway. Boring old sods. But I was thinking about it, just recently, and you know what the funny thing is?”

“What?”

“The funny thing is, I’ve had everything I ever wanted for exactly a year now, but I can’t see myself getting bored anytime soon.” He fixed Aziraphale with a held gaze, just to make the meaning absolutely clear. 

Crowley would often do that nowadays. Casually throw out something incorrigibly romantic in the middle of some off-topic ramble. Aziraphale still always feels a little blindsided by it, even after having a decent amount of time to get used to it. 

“Crowley, that’s… that’s rather lovely.” Aziraphale strokes his fingers through Crowley’s hair, then frowns. “A year isn’t that long.”

Crowley shrugs. “I didn’t get bored of you for six thousand years. Reckon I could easily go another six without it happening. I reckon I could just about deal with being in boring old crap fake Heaven, if you were there with me.”

“It seems as if us being together might defeat the purpose of the exercise.”

“But if we weren’t, they wouldn’t be able to pass it off as Heaven.” 

They lapse into silence for a while, Aziraphale hazily trying to think of something nice to say in return. After a while, Crowley pipes up again. 

“Angel.” Aziraphale can hear the grin in his voice. 

“What?”

Crowley kisses his wrist, and lapses into a sing-song Scottish brogue. “No, Angel, I was never false to thee…”

“Oh no.”

“I never gave thee cause to doubt me...”

“Crowley, stop.” Aziraphale can’t keep the laughter from spilling into his words. 

“I have always lov’d thee and do still… and no other… no other angel your place shall fill.”

“That’s nice. Enough of that now.” 

“‘_You’ve_ got one of his first editions, don’t lie. I’ve seen it. Next to those misprinted Bibles.” 

“Yes, well. Perhaps it reminded me of you.” 

Crowley grins rather soppily up at him. 

Aziraphale leans over rather awkwardly to pick up his tumbler of whisky, even though he’s already beginning to contemplate sobering up and taking Crowley to bed. He’s rather lost the thread of the last few minutes of conversation, but one particular offhand thought he was having rises to the surface again. Something about bad films… was that the film they’d seen earlier? No, that was a good one. Had card tricks in it. Games of chance. No good if you always win. Something like that. 

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale strokes his hair again. “You were the best gamble I ever made.”

**Author's Note:**

> The few lines of verse Crowley quotes are a slightly paraphrased verse from "Forget-Me-Not" by William McGonnagall, an Edinburgh poet from the 1800's who was widely hailed as being responsible for some of the worst poetry of all time. I like to think that Crowley's 'assistance' didn't stop at Shakespeare. 
> 
> Thanks for reading folks, leave a comment if you're so inclined, I always love to get them.


End file.
